"Syrian refugees go about their business in a refugee camp in Mafraq, Jordan…"
Ropes on poles, jeans & shirts flapping in wind.
He sits on a giant bag of rice, head in hands.
Too much or too little, rips & bursts & furrows.
Something seared in a pan.
If you knew a mother, any mother, you would care
for mothers, yes? No.
What it is to be lonesome for stacked papers
on a desk, under glass globe,
brass vase with standing pencils,
new orders.
How quickly urgencies of doing disappear.
And where is the child from the next apartment,
whose crying kept him awake
these last terrible months?
Where do you file this unknowing?
File it under Humanity. The words here hurt my heart and convict my soul. Today I have found a new [to me] and very soul-challenging writer. Today was a very good day for me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How quickly urgencies of doing disappear. And where is the child from the next apartment, whose crying kept him awake these last terrible months? this unknowing? ? very fine poem. tony